


Charge Of The Darkness

by catness



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dark Fantasy, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 22:50:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catness/pseuds/catness





	Charge Of The Darkness

At midnight the enchanted orchard is awash with cold pale glow of the full moon. I slip through the shadows, seeking the tall apple tree that is considered sacred by the village folk. The tree bears sweet and delicious fruits, but they are of no interest to me - tonight I am after a different kind of harvest which is waiting for me under its branches.

Even from the distance I can already discern the slender silhouette of a woman in a long white gown. She stands still, with her head tilted towards the sky; the inhabitants of the valley are fascinated by moonlight, perceiving it as a way of communication with their favorite deity. The woman is so absorbed in contemplation that she neither hears nor sees me approaching from behind; my embrace takes her by surprise. I gather it's a pleasant surprise. She doesn't struggle, practically melting in my arms and stretching her neck, eager for my kiss. It's good that she cooperates. Not that I would've released her if she fought me. I had waited for years, watching her growing up and maturing, and I'm not about to relinquish my prize when the plum is ripe for plucking; her fate is signed and sealed. But in spite of what is said of me, I am not a bloodthirsty monster and I do not crave pointless brutality. True sorcerer can't afford being carried away by passion; his main assets are restraint and discipline. I do whatever brings me closer to my goals, but my quest is for knowledge, not for carnal pleasures.

"Greetings, my love," I say, loosening my arms to let her turn around and see my face. As far as I know, she believes she's infatuated with me. Plenty of times I had caught her casting a furtive glance in my direction, and it amuses me to play along.

"Oh, it's you!" She sounds ecstatic. She was waiting for this moment as much as I was, albeit for entirely different reasons. She is not the only one to harbor hopes. During all my years spent in the valley, I became somewhat of a magnet for local maidens unaware of my true identity. I could not return their affection, but I had been observing and researching until I made my choice. The witch folk teach their youth about two paths open for a woman coming of age; she can become either a Priestess or a Mother. They are wrong. There is the third path, which unfolds only for the chosen. Her luck (or curse, depending on the point of view) is that she was chosen - by me.

Her body, warm and yielding, clings to me like a vine as we join in a long passionate kiss. When I break the embrace, her arms wind around my neck, trying to pull me back. "Wait, my love," I say, "the night is still young. I brought you a small gift, for I want us to celebrate our betrothal."

"You are my gift, the only one I ever desired," she replies. 

"And you are mine. But there is always room for embellishments." I open my leather pouch and take out an ornate golden chalice encrusted with emeralds. Standing formally on one knee, I present her with the shiny souvenir. "Please accept this little token of my commitment, and may it herald the fulfillment of our relationship."

She gasps in delight and claps her hands. "What a gorgeous symbol of Goddess and motherhood! How did you know I wished for something like this for ages?"

"I'm glad it pleases you," I say. "But there is more." I reach into the pouch again and extract a narrow-necked bottle encased in wickerwork. "I brought some charmed herbal wine, brewed of wormwood and roses from the Garden of Eternal Light. I kept this bottle for a special occasion."

I pull out the cork and fill the chalice with emerald-green liquid, bubbling and foaming. My vis-à-vis looks uncertain; to reassure her, I take the first sip. "Here is to fate. May our paths be entwined together till death do us part."

She accepts the chalice and repeats after me: "... together till death do us part". Truer words have never been spoken.

After each sip, we pass the wine to each other. It tastes bittersweet, like a long-lost memory. When there is no more left but a few emerald drops at the bottom, her fingers start shaking. The chalice falls out of her hands and rolls on the ground. 

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I don't know what came over me... suddenly I feel so tired."

I cradle her in my arms. "Do not worry, my love. I'll take care of everything."

A weak smile flickers across her face before she collapses. I carefully lower her limp body and arrange it on the soft grass. Her lips are quivering but no sound escapes them. For the moment, she is mute and paralyzed, albeit fully conscious because I prefer it this way. There is no damage; the effects of the drug are easily counteracted by the antidote, which I had taken in advance so I could share the drink with her. Without the antidote, the effects would wear out by themselves in one hour. It is plenty of time for what I have to do.

I strip her down and toss the white gown aside. Then I allow myself a moment of anticipation, enthralled by the sight of my betrothed stretched nude and helpless at my feet, her fair skin almost glowing in the moonlight. She still doesn't realize what's going on. Her dark eyes, oozing desire, follow my movements as I unsheathe the knife from my belt and raise it in the air.

It is an exquisite sample of weaponry, with a double-edged blade and a steel hilt that contains a magical crystal encased in metal. Now it's just a knife - to become an athame, a sorcerer's ceremonial tool, it has to be charged with energy. The witch folk have devised a multitude of charging rituals, utilizing moonlight and sunlight, salt and incense, song and dance, meditation and visualization and so on. However, there is nothing that empowers a ritual tool better than blood - preferably taken by force and just before the death of its source, because then it encapsulates the essence of life energy. I had been experimenting with various charging techniques, but when the noose of suspicion started to tighten around my neck and it became too risky to continue preying on city dwellers, I decided it's time to take a break. I submitted myself to a voluntary exile in a rural place, so secluded that it does not appear on any maps, where I could lie low for a while, studying ancient manuscripts and researching the theory. My findings brought me to clear conclusion - my next target must be a pureblood witch from a respectable family, a virgin who just reached the age of maturity. Only then the blood will possess special powers. 

I run my hand along the torso of my chosen one, checking the life signs. She's breathing in excited gasps but her muscles are relaxed and do not respond to my touch. Everything is going on as planned. I spread her legs apart, exposing the dark triangle in between. Her widened eyes, focused on the knife, burn with an urgent question. "Now this will hurt," I warn her, "but it won't last long."

The knife easily slides into the dark cleft between her thighs. The blade is razor-sharp so I feel no resistance even when I push it halfway in and the first blood seeps out of what now becomes an open wound. I pause to examine the wet, glistening steel surface. As I watch, the moisture is absorbed by the magically crafted metal alloy, and the blade is almost as clean and shining as before. The procedure works, but it is just a start. The tool needs much, much more. 

I thrust the knife deeper, up to the hilt, to pierce the uterus and open the floodgates for the stream of precious liquid. Now it pours out freely, soaking in the ground beneath her thighs. I hope there is enough to satisfy the thirst of my athame, which is growing darker with each stroke; it almost pulls my hand by itself, plunging viciously into the flesh. I glance at my victim's face - her lips are trembling, trying to let out a scream. The paralyzing drug diminishes the tissue sensitivity, but it does not alleviate the pain completely. Of course for me, this is not a concern. If I followed the stupid "an it harm none" law adopted by the witch folk, I still would've been brewing potions in the town apothecary, dreaming of unattainable knowledge.

Meanwhile, the side effect of the procedure starts to show up - my manhood is now swollen and throbbing, on the verge of explosion. This won't do. True sorcerer is not allowed to spill his seed for no good reason. If he ever aspires to anything noteworthy, such a pointless waste of life energy is unforgivable and undermines all his efforts. For a second, I envy the woman sprawled in front of me. Her torment will be over soon, while mine has been lasting for years, without a chance of relief in any foreseeable future. I take a deep breath, willing myself to calm down, but this time it doesn't work. The excitement is too overwhelming.

I pull the knife out and slash my left arm with several deep strokes, crisscrossing the latest scars. Sharp pain counteracts the lust; my arousal subsides and my head is clear again. For now, the peril is averted.

At last, the athame becomes satiated and slows down. The blade is now completely black, gleaming with unearthly darkness. I feel the intense heat emanating from it; when I press the tip of the blade to my palm, it leaves a burn mark. I realize that for the young witch, the ordeal was even more torturous than I had expected. As a gesture of consolation, I lean over her exhausted body and plant a gentle kiss on her silent lips. "Everything happens for a reason," I whisper. "Your path delivered you into my hands so you could serve my will. Rejoice, for you have fulfilled your destiny."

The process is not finished yet - now it's time for the second stage. I say the final goodbye to my betrothed while she still can hear me, and kiss both of her eyes to wipe off the tears; I don't want to ruin her pretty face by touching it with my bloody hands. 

I slide my fingers across her chest, leaving a dirty trail on the delicate skin, and pause for a few seconds to fondle her left breast, round and firm, never to be spoiled by nursing a baby. Her heart, pounding underneath, is my next target. The crystal in the hilt is still incomplete; its hunger can be satisfied only with the blood from a live, beating human heart.

It took me time to learn the exact location of all internal organs. My first victims invariably ended up mutilated and ripped apart, which had earned me my nickname. But practice makes perfect; eventually I had achieved mastery in this field, and even after several years of repose my skill is still flawless. My arm is steady as the blade penetrates the skin and thrusts deeper into the flesh, slipping precisely between the ribs. This is even more gratifying than the previous procedure, but extra excitement is exactly what I want to avoid. The sooner the temptation is over, the better; lingering would do me nothing but harm. One neat stab is all I can afford.

Unfortunately there's no way to see what happens inside the ribcage. Blood splashes out of the witch's mouth, which serves as an indirect evidence that the target was reached. But the ultimate proof is the magic stone, the color of which is slowly deepening from pale pink to bright red. I let the knife feed the crystal until it shines with angry red light. In the meantime, I gratify myself with watching the motionless dark eyes glazing over. It's always fascinating to observe the transition from life to death, especially when it was accomplished by your own hand. My erection starts to disturb me again, but a good hard squeeze of my wounded arm takes care of it.

I sheathe the athame, now fully charged; I can sense its impatience to play with the newfound power. Not now. I could burn the whole orchard to the ground with a wave of hand, but that would be pointless, not to mention alerting the whole village. "Wait, my love," I whisper, "there is time."

Compelled to tidy up, I drag the corpse away from the bloodstained patch of grass and lay it under the apple tree. Then I pick the white gown, which lies in a crumpled heap on the ground, and drape it over the cuts. I know that the body won't be discovered at least till the afternoon. The villagers respect the privacy of a woman undergoing a rite of passage, and nobody would dare to disturb her sleep until it becomes evident that something is amiss. By this time, I will be far away; my work here is done. 

I leave the orchard, walking as quietly as before, and emerge at the crossroads, where my horse is waiting for me. I'm used to travel light; two saddle bags contain everything I need to carry around. My most precious possession is back in my sheath. The young witch should be proud. She never lived to become a wife and a mother as she had envisioned, but she had served a much more important purpose - a part of her will accompany the greatest sorcerer of all times. Her blood will let me delve into the occult mysteries, discovering secrets she could never even begin to imagine; and holding my athame, I will always hold her heart in my hand.

Death is only the beginning. Our paths are still entwined, and the road is calling.


End file.
